The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [197]
But, Bev, read on! I had just read your letter when my little orphan came in for his lesson. (Oh, yes, he is an orphan, too; the story is extraordinary, and not without some real bathos—you, I’m certain, would be sobbing.) He saw at once I had received bad news, and I was moved by a gust of nostalgia to discuss Wexler with him, the way he taught, his nicknames of my invention (The Ibid Ibis, I-Doubt-It, The Sic Bastard), certain methods and debates we had, including the fascinating questions of the particular historical issue surrounding that item I may have found. Of course the boy sat stock-still, agape and starved for junior common rooms, whatnot. After a few minutes, I regained hold of myself, and was prepared to start on our day’s topic (religious cults of the Theban kings), but he interrupted me and asked quite simply how he could go about being admitted to Balliol. He is really quite something, full of surprises. “Well, do let’s see,” I replied, all seriousness, “did you finish your schooling in Australia, or just learn at the lending library?” He was silent. “Well, that does make it rather difficult, doesn’t it, ducks?” Not to mention that moist sheep smell they all give off.
We began our tutorial (which consist mostly of me summarising certain events or themes, and giving him lists of books to read should he ever return to civilisation, some of which he has surprisingly already read, most of which he has not and which I attempt to summarise for him as well). Today, though, after only a few minutes, conversation slipped back to the glories of Oxford. This was entirely his doing, and while at first I indulged him and myself, it was becoming rather irritating, and so I said that discussing Oxford was too painful for me still, as it invariably brought back memories of (almost a reflex now to pull up his name when lying is necessary) poor Trilipush, my greatest friend there, an orphan just like you, ducks, but now missing these many months in the Bosporus campaign. (Sorry to drop the news on you so suddenly, Bev. Had I not mentioned? Oh yes, Ralph volunteered, don’t you know, to lead a detachment of bronzed, broad-shouldered seamen to approach Constantinople by water, swimming actually, as Ralph, preferring not to be too ostentatious, declined a ship. Not a word from him in months. Do pray for our chum.)
The colonial, eager for any holy relic of my saintly existence in the promised land of Oxford, pleads for details.
“He was my dearest friend at Balliol, quite my inseparable mate, the golden boy, the hope of Egyptology, the orphaned son of Kentish gentry, the renowned sportsman, scholar, and soon-to-be gentleman farmer. He and I joined up for the good fight together, the pride of the Balliol Egypt men, served here with me side by side at the beginning, but he simply must insist on combat, mustn’t he, and off he strode to help your countrymen in storming the empire of fezzes, our lovely lost boy.” I really did go on a bit, quite sure my pupil was catching the joke, on and on I went, reminisced over our triumphs and antics in our varsity days, Ralph and I, this and that about Ralph’s marvellously colourful childhood and career, really anything that came into my head to avoid our drab little tutorial, but as I went on, I saw the fool had absolutely no idea. And of course that made me curious to see how far things could go, and off I went, rather exaggerated here and there about it all, promoted into reality some things you and I would have liked, Bev, rebuilt Oxford in our image for him. I was thinking only of you in some of my additions, particularly the serving dwarves, chosen in ferocious competition for their servility, discretion, fluency in foreign tongues, and perfectly dimensioned tininess.
He has an unquenchable thirst for details, our blackmailing orphan, and I was tireless. What